me, my lover, & the oldies

This piece was originally written for specific work purposes, but it's special to me so it's been repurposed and shared here:

On nights when sleep is shy and adrenaline betrays us, my partner and I pick an old childhood movie to play in the background as we try to fall asleep. Over the summer, that movie was the 1998 Lindsay Lohan classic, The Parent Trap. For like, two weeks straight. Pretty soon, Nat King Cole’s easy crooning had me Pavlov-ed into slumber by the last letter in “Love”, while for her it often takes half the movie. But for those first few minutes together, it feels like being little kids at a sleepover. I try to sneak my cold feed over to her warm calves. She squeals in disapproval. In the morning, I wonder if we should have our own elaborate secret handshake that we perform together. But I think we’re both more Hallie than Annie.

Sometime between that bout of heat-induced insomnia and now, we also decided to commit more regularly to catching up on old classic films we haven’t seen. In August we watched the unbelievable Moonstruck (1987) starring Cher and Nicolas Cage. The entire thing had us entranced. Every few minutes of the film, we’d steal glances at each other. From the moment Dean Martin explains love, When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, to the very end credits, both of us had stars in our eyes.

Of course, a film has not been seen until it’s logged into Letterboxed. Right? I wish I wasn’t so clearly a product of early access to the Internet, but you can’t nurture your way out of nature. If there’s a place to go, to share, to gush or ask questions, I’m there. Searching for community to corroborate my every thought. Maybe if I spill my guts to the 5,000 other users in the Reviews tab of an obscure 20th century Russian film, my college "Cinema Studies" degree will actually mean something.

The problem with me and new movies, new music, new art, is that I’m nostalgic to the point of malady. Of course, this affliction doesn’t stop me from keeping up with the zeitgeist, but it does mean I have whiplash from how often I turn my head and look backwards. In an interview with WIRED, Wu Tang Clan’s Masta Killa asserts, “Loyalty is royalty.” I laugh, the fifth identical pair of my favorite sneakers sitting in my periphery. Much like Masta Killa, I believe in commitment. Good is good, no matter how old it is.

Two years ago, SZA released her long-anticipated sophomore album, SOS. I was nervous to listen to it. Her debut record, Ctrl, is an all-time favorite of mine. It was unlike anything else I’d ever heard, and I felt so safe with and known by the music. Would SOS live up to that metric? Would I find a friend in this new record? Spoiler alert: I thought the record was great, but it didn’t serve the same purpose. (Which, to some degree, duh?) For the next few weeks, while I listened to Solana sing about wanting to kill her ex, I realized something. I don’t need to carry SOS with me — I’ll always have Ctrl.

The way I negotiate new albums with old favorites is the same philosophy that I hope to apply towards my life. I can embrace what’s new and honor what’s come before it. Hope whispers and I will follow. Linda Ronstadt knows it, and so do my two feet. Stepping forward, taking me to where I’m welcome before I even know it. Knowing I can always turn my head, right over my shoulder, and see home.

I guess the same goes for love. Maybe there's a human instinct (or socially manufactured urge) to look for new connection, new experiences. But there's an untouchable relief to built history. Make it real, your summer dream. The Beach Boys suggested, and I did that. I found my leading lady, my summer, winter, spring, autumn dream. And I know as long as I keep my eyes on her, she'll trail me into the newness of the future, too.